Chapter Text
“Are you sure we’re in the right place?” Monty asks.
Clarke doesn’t doubt Jasper’s sense of direction, but his decision-making has always left a little to be desired. “Yeah…this is a bad idea.”
Jasper, on the other hand, looks delighted. “It’s a great idea! My friend was right, there’s no way Octavia’s gonna get ID’d here.”
That, they have to admit, is true. Clarke casts a critical eye over the front façade of the bar before them: dark green painted wood that’s chipped in places, a single dirty window, and the gold lettering that reads The Captain’s Room. The black door is closed, but a neon sign in the window blinks “Open.” She rather wishes it wouldn’t so that they could head home, even if it was a long trip back to their apartments on the other side of town.
“I don’t know if Bellamy is going to be down for this,” Monty tells Jasper, taking the words from Clarke’s mouth. “You know how he is with O.”
Clarke checks her phone, hunching against the cold evening air. She wishes she would have worn more clothes; the breeze raises goosebumps on her bare legs. “Well, we’ll find out any minute. He said they’d meet us at seven.”
The three friends stand in front of the bar for a few more minutes as Jasper attempts to list all the positive things he’d heard about the place—these are mainly variations on “a whole new crop of girls to talk to”—and Monty tries to agree about the girls while simultaneously pointing out that people probably lived in the alley that ran alongside the bar. This wasn’t exactly the best part of town, and nothing like the bars they were used to near campus.
Luckily, Clarke doesn’t have to listen to them squabble for long. Bellamy’s black truck at last roars around the corner at the end of the street, rumbling up to the curb. Bell rolls down the window and raises an eyebrow at the place. Beside him, John Murphy slouches in the passenger seat and lifts a hand in greeting.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” Bellamy asks Clarke, confused. Monty lets out a triumphant sound of vindication and Jasper protests.
“I mean, it’s definitely a bar,” Clarke replies with a shrug. “And it looks like she won’t get ID’d here.”
“Yeah, but will she get jumped here?”
Valid concern.
The answer comes when a hand darts out of the backseat and whacks Bellamy on the back of the head—his indignant “Uh, ow?” goes unheard as Octavia leans forward out of the backseat with a wide grin at Clarke.
“Don’t listen to Captain Killjoy over here,” she says, “It’s perfect!”
Ultimately, it’s Octavia’s call. Her nineteenth birthday passed during the summer, and now that they’re two weeks into the fall semester and settled in, it’s time to celebrate. Her enthusiasm trumps any reserve Bellamy has, so with a sigh of resignation, he pulls forward into an empty space along the curb and parks.
Octavia spent most her freshman year escaping her cramped dorm room by crashing on the couch in her brother’s apartment, so she’s become a part of the group as much as any of them despite the three year age difference. Hell, she walks into Clarke’s apartment unannounced as often as she does Bellamy’s now. Clarke doesn’t mind: Octavia may have Bellamy’s blood, but she’s much more forthcoming with her kindness and warmth.
Until, of course, she gets onto the soccer field, where she’s all fiery Blake—no one who knows her brother is really surprised that she broke the school’s single-season “foul’s committed” record in the first ten games of her freshman season. Indeed, it’s part of the reason behind her athletic scholarship.
Octavia clambers out of the car and jogs to join Clarke, Monty, and Jasper where they stand on the sidewalk, looking up at the place. She seems to be on the same level of excitement as Jasper, while Bellamy, when he joins them, adopts Clarke and Monty’s dubious stare.
Murphy, one of Bellamy’s three roommates, walks up looking completely content to get drunk wherever.
“This still seems pretty sketchy,” Bellamy says at Clarke’s shoulder.
And that’s the deciding factor for Octavia, ever the rebel. She casts a smirk over her shoulder at her brother. “Like I said, it’s perfect. Jasper, you’re the best. C’mon.” She loops an arm into his and drags him inside. Monty shrugs and follows his roommate, and then Murphy shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, heading in too.
Bellamy looks to Clarke, who shrugs. “You know she won’t back down. She’s just a prettier version of you.”
“How about this,” Bell offers, “Adam and Nate are always down for a party. We’ll check this place out, see if Jasper’s ID theory works, let O have a drink or two, then head back over to the apartments and everyone can celebrate there. Deal?”
It doesn’t matter what Clarke agrees to because she has as much control over Octavia as she does a wild bull, but it’ll placate Bellamy so she nods. “Let’s just get it over with.”
---
The inside of the bar is no different than the outside, no different than a thousand bargain dive bars across the country: wood paneling, chipping red and gold accent paint, dirt cheap drinks, and spindly tables and stools cramming most of the free space. The actual bar spans the length of one wall, and there’s a single pool table in the back, partially obscured by the crowd around it.
“You going to hustle anyone tonight, Griffin?” Bellamy asks, pointing the pool table out.
“Are you always going to be bitter about that?”
“I was drunk.”
“Still counts. And you were arrogant, that's why I did it.”
The crowd is more than they expected, more than the shoddy exterior would suggest. But it’s no surprise that a group of obviously overdressed college kids stands out against the blue- and no-collar patrons crammed into the room. Clarke points out her friends huddled at one end of the bar and she and Bellamy begin pushing their way through the crowd, avoiding the strange glares of the locals.
In addition to the attention of the usual bar patrons, their friends have already gained the bartender’s attention, as well: when they join the group, Clarke slides into a barstool on Bellamy’s left and pays little attention as the man takes her friends’ orders, until he gets to Octavia.
Everyone holds their breath.
“I’ll have a vodka martini. Please,” she adds demurely, looking up at the bartender through thick lashes.
“Wow,” he replies, “I don’t get that one here often. Don’t think I’ve touched a martini glass in weeks. I got you covered, though.” And he moves on down the line after giving her a little smile, without mentioning her ID.
“Classic Blake move,” Clarke mutters to Bellamy, who’s trying to hold back a proud grin.
Jasper looks downright triumphant.
Bellamy orders a beer, rather than his usual Jack and Coke. He still has every intention of getting the group back into his truck and getting Octavia back into more familiar territory, even if he has to give up a night out to do it.
As does Clarke. They’re by far the youngest in the place, dressed for a night downtown rather than a few beers after work. Perhaps her friends had been too enthusiastic about the night to notice, but she knew Bellamy had picked up on the same uncomfortable tension between them and the bar regulars. The sooner they could head back to their usual bar down the street from campus, the better.
And then the bartender fixes Clarke with dark eyes and an easy, charming grin. “And what can I get for you, Princess?”
He has her. She hadn’t noticed how attractive he was. The thoughts of the rest of the bar vanishing, Clarke cocks her head at the name and lets a practiced smile spread over her face.
“Just a beer,” she says, echoing a little of Octavia’s coyness. “Someone has to look out for my alcoholic friends.”
“Responsible. Well, that’s no fun,” he replies. “You’ll have to let me make you one of my signatures later.”
“I have pretty high standards.” But she’s smiling back as he slides her a beer.
“Good, you should. Hopefully I can meet them. I’m Finn, by the way.”
“Clarke. And we’ll see.”
The quirked eyebrow she gives him has worked plenty of times before and judging by the twinkle in his eyes, it’s working again tonight.
---
A group of grizzled men in jeans and muddy work boots wait impatiently at the other end of the bar, pulling Finn away as soon as he finishes the drinks. The voices and the music in the bar have picked up, so Clarke and her friends Clarke and her friends circle around each other, beaming with success.
“Okay, Clarke.” Octavia leans into her, easily the most excited of them all. “Flirting with the bartender already?”
“You know me better than that, Octavia,” Clarke backpedals, “Do you really think I’d steal your thunder?”
“You don’t need to steal it, it’s all yours. I just needed him to forget my ID; you’re the one who needs the stress relief. A few hours with the bartender after the place closes down and you’ll be—”
“Cheers!” Jasper saves her by thrusting his glass into the center of the group. Octavia pretends to ignore Clarke’s indignant glower. “A toast, to Octavia’s first dive bar adventure!”
“May we all remember it,” Monty adds, wistfully.
With laughs of agreement, they clink the glasses together and tilt their heads back for long first drinks. Clarke relishes the first taste of cheap beer after the week she’s had—she’s needed a night like this—but Octavia scoffs when she brings her martini away from her lips.
“Uh, is there even any alcohol in this?” she demands, confused. She offers the drink to Clarke, then to Monty, to taste. “I can barely taste anything!”
Monty chuckles. “Oh, my sweet summer child. Welcome to the world of legal drinking.” He throws an arm around her shoulder, which she promptly shrugs off with a fake glare. “Here, bartenders put the normal, recommended amount of alcohol in each glass.”
“At least it’s dirt cheap here. I mean, two dollar drafts?” says Jasper. He’ll be forever proud of himself for finding this place, with all its virtues. In fact, two blonde, long-legged virtues walk past and completely mesmerize him.
“You’re used to the drinks Bellamy makes,” Clarke explains when she sees Jasper and Monty’s attention is gone. Her group of friends has spent many a night passed out around a homemade beer pong table in the living room of Bellamy’s apartment on the nights he plays bartender. “Those drinks are equal alcohol and mixer, and taste like the stuff I used to sanitize at the hospital. That’s why bars aren’t usually the same horror show frat parties are.”
“Most frat parties,” Bellamy interjects defensively. “My brothers and I throw some good ones. Speaking of, what’s the plan, Princess? We sticking around?”
Clarke nearly chokes on her beer. “What did you just call me?”
“What, the cute bartender guy can say it but I can’t?”
“He’s not an ass, Bell,” Octavia says plainly, taking a sip of her drink. Clarke grins at her in appreciation.
“Point taken.”
Bellamy flashes her the same arrogant smirk he’s worn since freshman year, back when he was insufferable. Luckily for him, though, he mostly does it in jest now. He’s come a long way in three years.
Nevertheless, Clarke rolls her eyes at him, her habit that has stuck in freshman year, then sends a glance down the bar at Finn. He’s been engaged with other customers for the last few minutes, laughing with them as he pours their shots, but he has sent more than one surreptitious look up the bar at her when he thinks she won’t notice.
She’s noticed.
She’s a senior in college. Passably cute. Definitely comfortable with a drink in her hand. This game is nothing new to her. For her first move, she pretends not to notice Finn’s attention and turns back to Bellamy.
“Yeah, let’s stay.”
Octavia lets out an immediate “yes!” and that’s probably what prevents Bellamy from protesting—he’s never been able to deny his sister. He instead settles for giving Clarke a withering look as he digs his phone out of his pocket and texts Adam and Nate, his other roommates, to tell them not to wait up.
Octavia’s not the only one who looks delighted; there’s a certain bounce in Finn’s step when he returns to find them in their seats again.
“Alright, everyone’s taken care of, so I’m all yours.” He’s speaking to the group but looking at Clarke. “What can I get for you?”
Clarke raises her beer, still half-full. Bellamy leans forward, with other plans: “Shots. Whiskey.”
“For everyone?”
“Hell yeah,” Octavia says. Jasper, Monty, and Murphy voice their agreement. Finn gives Clarke a questioning look.
“C’mon, Griffin,” Murphy drawls, sounding bored, “I remember when you used to be fun.”
“Do you remember the time I beat you by five seconds in the shotgun contest?” Clarke fires back, then she turns to Finn. “Fine. Shots.”
Jasper lets out a whoop and Finn is smiling at her again and it’s worth it.
Finn reaches below the bar and comes up with a handful of larger-than-normal shot glasses. “Wanna make them doubles? Oh come on,” he adds when he sees her start to balk, “you’re currently on pace for three beers for the night. Live a little, Princess.”
He holds that challenge as he pours and slides her the first glass. Never one to back down, for better or for worse, Clarke grabs it and downs the shot without hesitation and without diving for her beer after. She stares him down, victorious, even as she hisses at the taste of house whiskey.
Finn lets out a low whistle. “Alright,” he concedes, laughing, “Maybe I was wrong about you. Maybe you can hang with the locals out here.”
But Clarke’s not thinking about the regulars. She’s too focused on Octavia’s valiant attempt to hold back her grimace when she takes her shot; too focused on Jasper’s laughter at he tells the stories of all the times he and Monty barely avoided getting caught smoking weed in the dorms; on Murphy and Bellamy cheering along with the crowd when a baseball player on the only TV in the bar makes a diving catch. She’s too focused on the way Finn pushes a hand back through his dark hair and leans on the bar to talk to her over all the din. Too focused on all of it to let anything ruin this night with her favorite people.
“I can have fun,” she tells him, leaning back slightly and letting the whiskey burn down into her stomach. She finishes her beer and he starts pouring a second.
“I never doubted you, just wanted to see it. So, Arcadia University, yeah?”
“Wow, how did you figure that one out?”
He deflects the sarcasm with a laugh. “Not that I’m complaining, but how did you end up all the way over on this side of town?”
“We’re…” she looks sideways at Octavia, finishing the last of her martini. “We’re just trying new things.”
“Fair enough. So what are you studying at school?”
If she had a dollar for every time she’d been asked that question, she could buy this place and have money left over for better alcohol. Her answer is well-rehearsed: “The best way to work myself into an early grave, at this point. Bio,” she clarifies, when he raises an eyebrow. “Pre-med. Fourth year. Nothing but med school applications, volunteer hours, school, work…I need nights like this.”
“Uh, yeah.” He starts to laugh. “Yeah, you do. Now I understand why you’re so responsible—you don’t know how not to be.”
His laughter is not at all unwelcome, but she narrows her eyes at his words. “Wanna bet?”
“Wanna try one of my signatures?”
Well played. She really enjoys this game. It’s been too long since she last played.
“Signatures?”
The voice cuts through the music and clatter of the bar to interrupt them is brash, indignant, and undercut with amusement. Finn groans.
“The hell are you telling them? I’m only fifteen minutes late and you’re making signatures?”
They turn to see a dark-haired girl pushing through the striding through the cutout that allows the bartenders behind the bar. She tosses her purse on a shelf below, then shrugs off a jacket, revealing bare shoulders and a tank top that is nearly too tight and definitely too low-cut.
The smirk on her face is all confidence in her appearance. And deservedly so.
Another older patron to their right speaks first, letting out a sigh of relief and smacking his hand on the bar. “Raven,” he says “Thank god you’re finally here.”
Finn rolls his eyes at the man. “Oh come on, Frank, it’s not like I messed up your Budweiser refills.”
“Yeah, but look at you. And look at her.”
The new girl, Raven, seems to have no problem with the comment and even Frank a sly wink. “Aw, thank you, Frank. You know how I love flattery. I’m still not knocking any of your drinks off your tab, but I love it. Thanks.”
She takes his tip and his empty glass before she turns to Finn, arching one eyebrow and fighting back a smile. “So, you’re making signature drinks, now, huh?”
Finn shrugs in response.
Striding forward, she shoos him out of the way and grabs the bottle of vodka he had been holding; she pours the shots with practiced flourish as Finn takes up the role of readying glasses for more drinks. Raven slides the shots over and leans on the bar to chat as the six friends throw them down.
“Finn’s a decent enough bartender to cover me for me between shifts when I’m running late—”
“Which is always,” Finn points out, good-naturedly.
“—and he’s just so nice.” Raven shoots him a sarcastic glare, before finishing: “But he’s still in training. I’m the head honcho here, at your service.”
Bellamy’s attention has at last been pulled from the baseball game. He swirls the last sips of his drink thoughtfully. “The ones he’s made us have been fine.”
Raven grins, licks the corner of her mouth. “You haven’t had mine yet. How about a Moscow Mule? Hold on one second, then I’ll hook you up.”
She smacks her hand on the bar, jarring him—Bellamy’s senses may have been a little dulled, be it by the gorgeous new bartender or the alcohol—before she bounces away, heading to the far side of the bar and leaning out over it, calling to the crowd that has been occupying the pool table all night.
“Hey! You guys good, or you want another round?”
“Oh good, you’re here,” one of the guys calls back, raising his glass without turning to look at her. “The usual. And get me something top-shelf this time, Raven.”
“We only have one shelf, as always, Gus.” She returns to the group, looking satisfied, and starts pouring beers for a few other impatient customers up and down the bar.
“They have that joke every night,” Finn mutters.
“Yes we do. Stand-up comedy every night, all night, so you all might as well start tipping me now. So what are we drinking?”
She talks Monty out of another beer and into a gin and tonic, Murphy into a Manhattan, and the entire group into an extra round of shots with their new drinks. Between the extra tips she must get and her ability to get people to purchase the more expensive mixed drinks, Clarke understands how this place stays afloat.
Despite Raven’s charm, Clarke looks to Finn when it comes time for her drink order. “Just surprise me,” she tells him. “I want to see what you can do.”
“Damn, Clarke. Get it,” Octavia whispers in her ear when Finn turns to grab a bottle from the shelf on the wall behind the bar.
“Stress relief,” she murmurs back, all smiles.
“Now help me find someone to take home.” Her hazy eyes dance across the crowd, alighting on a number of men that Sober Octavia would never consider. This is her default intoxicated mode. She’s nineteen and craves the freedom to make poor decisions.
Clarke, however, is twenty-two. She knows better. She scoffs to regain Octavia’s attention. “Yeah right, Bellamy’d kill him. And then me.”
“Fffffuck Bellamy,” Octavia exclaims, louder than she realizes; Bellamy’s head whips around at the sound of his name. Clarke waves him off and pats Octavia’s thigh to quiet her. “No, no, Clarke, don’t actually fuck him.”
“You got it, O.”
---
Raven quickly proves herself to be more than worthy of all the extra tips; she’s splashing alcohol into multiple glasses at once with effortless accuracy, adding mixer with the other hand, sliding the completed drinks down the bar, all while chatting up Jasper and Monty.
Finn hands her a tall glass of something sparkling and strong, like champagne and vodka and some fruit that she’s too drunk to name. She’s felt the alcohol seep in over just the last few minutes, taking the edge off her consciousness and making everything lighter, warmer, blurred. She feels good. Better than she’s felt in a while.
Then she notices Bellamy’s red face, as he laughs at something Raven says and throws another drink back. He’s had far more than she has. Clarke reaches over and grabs his arm before he can replace the empty shot glass with the full one in front of him.
“Hey! You drove here, genius. How are you planning on getting everyone home? Where are your keys?”
Bellamy digs into his pocket, but pulls out his phone instead of the keys. He waves it for her. “Relax, Princess, Nate and Adam. I told them we’re staying, they said they’d come pick us and my truck up. They owe me one anyway.”
Still wary, Clarke releases Bellamy and allows herself to be appeased by his confident smile, though she maintains the glare for the nickname. Raven appears in front of her, holding two shots like a peace offering. She hands one to Clarke; then, surprisingly, throws back the second herself.
“So, you’re not from this part of town, clearly.” She grimaces against the alcohol burn. “Arcadia? Juniors, seniors?”
“Seniors.”
“Me too. Double major in mechanical and aerospace engineering.”
“Wait, what?” Monty demands, shaking his head to clear the alcohol haze.
“I’m one of you, Monty,” Raven says with a grin.
Finn speaks up. “Usually, locals aren’t really fans of college kids. Raven’s the only exception to that rule.”
“She’s the smartest bartender I ever met, that one.” It’s Frank again. And he has clearly seen his fair share of bartenders.
“That’s sweet, Frank. Alright, fine, your next beer is on the house. You know how to play me.”
Monty, majoring in electrical engineering, still has confusion written all over his face, as if he hadn’t heard Raven correctly the first time. He waves his hand to regain her attention. “Wait. Mech and aero? How the hell are you handling that workload?”
Raven’s face tinges with embarrassment and a hint of pride. “Well, it’s taken me like six years so far.”
“You also did a semester internship with NASA last year,” Finn points out.
“Yeah, filing and making coffee. Like every other intern across this wonderful country.”
“Ugh,” Clarke groans, “Amen to that.”
“This is much more fun, isn’t it? C’mon, my turn to make you a drink.” Without waiting for a response, Raven starts grabbing bottles. “You’ll probably still break my heart and pick Finn over me, but I’ll try anyway.”
Clarke shrugs, but Octavia smirks and raises an eyebrow. “You never know, with Clarke.”
Taking an order three customers down, Finn flashes Clarke a raised eyebrow and receives an angelic smile in response.
Raven has the next round of drinks out a few minutes later—and yes, whatever she makes Clarke is damn good—and she lingers in front of the group, wiping down the already water-stained bar, moving absentmindedly to the beat of the music. Bellamy watches her for a moment, then speaks up.
“So, NASA, huh? What’s a future astronaut doing in a shitty place like this?”
He’s more than a little drunk. It’s evident in his voice, in his face, in the number of shots he’s thrown back. Clarke winces when she sees the way Raven jaw clench.
Pulling in a deep breath, Raven polishes the bar for another few seconds before she turns to him; she has unclenched her jaw, but she fixes Bellamy with a defensive glare. “Clearly, I could ask the same of you. Minus the future astronaut part. Why are you sitting in this shitty place?”
It clicks for him after a moment and Bellamy flushes red with embarrassment. “I-I didn’t mean—” But when Raven’s cool gaze doesn’t soften under his foundering. When he realizes he lacks the articulation to apologize, Bellamy raises his hands in surrender, backing away from the bar. “I’m—”
He backs right into another customer, sending a drink crashing to the floor. Clarke sees it all coming from a mile away—she knows Bellamy is drunk and uncomfortable and edgy and she knows his next action before he does it. She jumps to her feet, any drunken unsteadiness gone, but Bellamy has already spun around.
“Come on, man, pay attention to where you’re walking!”
Not the wisest move.
The guy draws himself up to his full height, a half-head taller than the already tall Bellamy. If that weren’t intimidating enough, he has the lean, hungry look of an athlete, packed with muscle throughout his body. His scarred knuckles curl into fists.
“What did you say?” he asks.
“I said, watch where you’re going. And you should keep a better hold on your drink."
“I don’t take shit from kids who don’t belong in my bar.” Every word is a threat. Bellamy’s whole body tenses.
“Then back off,” Bellamy dares.
The rest of the group suddenly picks up on what’s happening; they all move at once. Murphy is on his feet, ready. Jasper eyes an empty bottle within his reach. His fingers twitch. Octavia reaches forward and twists her hand into the back of Bellamy’s shirt—Bellamy doesn’t seem to feel it.
“Bell,” Octavia warns, softly.
Clarke is at his side, trying to gain his attention. “Bellamy, come on. We’re fine. Sit down.”
“Hey. Chill the fuck out.” It’s Raven, hard and serious. “I swear to god, any blood hits my bar’s floor and I’ll kick both your asses.”
Neither of the men seem to hear any of it. The other man lifts his head, exposing his throat, daring Bellamy, while every muscle stands taut and ready to snap.
“Lincoln.”
It comes from the back of the bar, loud enough to carry over the head of every customer but somehow low and threatening, a warning call. Clarke blinks in surprise when the man’s body relaxes and he steps back in response to the voice.
She’s even more surprised when she registers that the voice was feminine.
No one moves except for the man, who gives Bellamy one last snarl before turning and stalking back to the pool table. The crowd parts to let him through. When he takes a seat at a table against the far wall, they see the table’s other occupant through the space in the crowd: the girl who called him back.
Most of the bar clientele has no idea what almost happened and continue their drinking and arguing and laughing without interruption. Gradually, Clarke’s friends allow themselves to release the tension in their muscles and they ease back to the bar, quiet among each other. Bellamy assures Octavia he’s fine.
Finn leans forward, muttering almost into Clarke’s ear.
“Like I said,” he tells her, voice low, “The locals aren’t fans of college kids. This is their neighborhood bar. They can get…territorial.”
Clarke studies the girl who stopped the fight before it began. She’s all dark hair and dark eyeliner and dark alcohol. Clarke can see what he’s saying—the way the girl slouches back with her drink cradled against her shoulder, Clarke thinks she’s never seen anyone wearing skinny jeans look so regal and so dangerous at the same time. The glare etched into her face is a clear warning for anyone who might step forward to her.
But the vodka has thinned Clarke’s blood; she’s always been brazen and right now she can’t take that warning as anything less than a challenge.
She grabs Octavia’s wrist and pulls her forward. “C’mon.”
The walk over is shorter than she thought—the girl watches her approach every step of the way—so Clarke doesn’t really have time to come up with anything to say before they’re standing in front of her.
Clarke freezes, trying to come up with something.
“Uh, hi.”
The girl raises an eyebrow without response. Next to her, the man who nearly destroyed Bellamy is equally reticent.
“I’m Clarke, and this is Octavia.”
They nod. “Lexa,” she says. “You met Lincoln.”
It’s not exactly welcoming. They fall silent, and she flicks her gaze up and down Clarke’s body, waiting expectantly.
Clarke is doing the same. In fact, though she blames her own wretched communication skills partially on the vodka, she’s also struck dumb by how good this girl—Lexa—looks as she reclines in her chair as if it’s a throne, fingers resting around her glass on the table. She’s lean, toned, with long legs kicked up on the chair in front of her. A white t-shirt a size too big hangs loose from her slim body; beneath the collar, the edge of a black tattoo is just barely visible, accentuating the shape of her collarbone and reaching up over her shoulder to her back.
An artist herself, Clarke has a wild urge to reach forward and pull at the collar of the shirt, to reveal more of the interesting tattoo. She says a prayer of thanks that she had declined the multiple shots Jasper had tried to get her to take earlier.
Nonetheless, against the nonchalant style of this girl, Clarke feels suddenly self-conscious, overdressed in her short skirt and silk top. She’s out of her depth here—a rare experience. She would have continued gaping dumbly had Octavia not elbowed her in the side.
“We, uh…we just wanted to apologize. For what happened.”
Octavia steps forward with an apologetic smile, far more eloquent. “Yeah, my brother can be a bit of an ass,” she tells Lincoln. “Don’t take it personally.”
“And we wanted to thank you for calling it off,” Clarke adds, giving Lexa a half-smile. It vanishes when it’s unreturned. “It...wouldn’t have been a pretty fight, at all.”
“It wouldn’t have,” Lexa agrees evenly. “Lincoln’s one of the best fighters in the neighborhood.”
And he has a whole cadre of grizzled, muscular friends standing behind him—all of whom, Clarke realizes, have stopped what they’re doing to watch this conversation. As if another fight is about to break out.
Clarke forces herself to ignore them, giving Lincoln a quick glance before returning her attention to Lexa. Octavia is doing enough staring for the both of them anyway.
“He looks like one. We—”
“Maybe if you’re looking to get in bar fights, Clarke, you should stay closer to the university. Where you can win them.”
Irritation sparks up into Clarke’s chest. “No one was looking for a fight. We’re just here to have a drink.”
“Fine.” Lifting her drink, something plain and dark in a lowball glass, Lexa heaves a sigh of impatience. “We get a few Arcadia kids down here at the beginning of every semester. They all want to look cool by coming to the shitty bar in the shitty neighborhood, instead of your usual clubs. Then they realize they don’t really fit in with the people who actually grew up in this neighborhood, and they don’t come back. I’ll save you the trouble of figuring that out for yourself.”
A half-dozen possible replies jump to her lips, borne of mingled resentment for and attraction to this girl and the aloof, arrogant gaze she fixes Clarke with. Her instinct wants to make Lexa smile, but her wounded pride wants to see Lexa taken down a peg.
But before she can decide either way, she feels Octavia stiffen next to her. Clarke knows that a Blake with lowered inhibitions, regardless of gender, is not an ingredient she wants added to this situation, so she speaks up before Octavia can say something stupid.
“Regardless. We’ll buy your next drink.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
She bites her tongue to compose herself. “Again,” she forces out, this time to Lincoln. “Sorry.”
Neither Lexa nor Lincoln respond. In fact, Lincoln hasn’t said a damn word. Clarke grabs Octavia’s wrist again and pulls her away, bristling with irritation and a hot prickling of embarrassment.
“Okay,” Octavia says, when they’re a safe distance away, “What a bitch. The guy was hot, though. Maybe I should flirt with him, that would piss her off.”
“We just avoided a barfight, O, let’s not give your brother a reason to start another.”
But when they return to the group, Bellamy looks on the edge of a fight anyway. “What were you doing with them?” he asks, jaw tight.
“Apologizing for you,” Clarke replies with a shrug, slipping past him to slide into a barstool. She’s dealt with combative Bellamy Blake before, nothing she can’t handle. A few minutes of simmering, and he’ll be fine.
Octavia, on the other hand, has already gotten over her irritation; she’s grinning like she just got off a roller coaster. “Clarke Griffin here isn’t quite the diplomat she thought she was.”
“Whatever,” Bellamy concedes. “Nate and Adam are on their way, they’ll be here soon. Let’s take care of the tabs. I want to get out of here.”
Clarke can’t say she doesn’t feel the same.
She casts a glance back of her shoulder.
Lexa is still nursing the same drink, watching Clarke over the rim of the glass with a barely concealed challenge in her eyes. You don’t belong here. And Clarke would take that challenge ninety-nine times out of a hundred. But not tonight. She keeps her face even and holds Lexa’s glare a little longer just to let her know that, then turns away.
“Yeah, it’s time to go.”
“Aw, you’re leaving?”
It’s Finn, just striding into earshot. When they nod and start pulling out cash to settle their tabs, he offers, “C’mon, just one more beer. You’ve been the highlight of my night.” The last part he directs at Clarke, and it soothes a bit of the burn that the conversation with Lexa left in her throat.
“Just one,” she says, begrudgingly.
Raven appears and starts settling out the tabs while Finn pours the final drinks of the night. Octavia takes her beer and tries to hand the extra three dollars to Raven, but the bartender pulls away. “Don’t worry about this last one, it’s paid for.”
Octavia’s brow knits in confusion.
“I guess Linc accepted your apology,” Raven says, nodding to the end of the bar. Lincoln is leaning there, watching the scene across the room intently; he inclines his head slightly when Octavia gives him an unsteady, shy smile of thanks.
When she sees that, Clarke flushes with relief. “Oh good, we—”
“Not yours, Blondie.” A full smirk now erupts over Raven’s face; she bites down on the tip of her tongue in an attempt to hold it back. “He only paid for hers. Sorry. You still owe me three bucks, that’s our best draft.”
Her friends erupt into drunk laughter around her. Clarke tries—and fails—to look dignified as she slowly accepts the beer and at least the bartender has the grace to bite back her amusement. Even Finn is laughing. Clarke ignores them all as she sips her drink, until Bellamy steps forward to pay for it for her.
She gives a noise of protest that he just rolls his eyes at. “Don’t give me that, Princess, you know the rule.”
“You’re arguing a free drink rule?” Finn asks.
“It’s not a rule, it’s his crazy tradition,” Clarke clarifies. “Every time we go out, no matter where we are—he buys me a drink.”
Octavia snorts. “He should. He owes you.”
“Forever,” Bellamy agrees.
Clarke is rolling her eyes again, shaking her head, so Jasper sits forward to explain it to Finn. “She saved his ass from getting kicked out of school back when we were freshman. They hated each other, and she still saved him.”
“What did he do?”
“A hell of a party.” Despite the events of that night, Bellamy sounds almost wistful— until he receives a sharp elbow to the ribs, courtesy Clarke.
Finn, however, is intrigued; no one else says anything more, so he waits until Clarke finishes her drink and gains her attention.
“I’ll have to hear that story. How about next time you come back?”
She sets her empty glass on the bar, eager to leave. “Deal.”
---
Nate and Adam await them outside by the time the group finishes their beers; Bellamy throws a few extra dollars more than the required tip on the bar, and leads his friends through the crowd of locals and out into the cool night air. Eleven PM is still relatively early, but the last half hour bled them of any desire to continue the party. They pile into the two cars, eyelids heavy and limbs unwieldy, looking forward to the comfort of passing out in their own beds.
In the front seat, Adam and Bellamy talk quietly about the bar—Raven, Finn, the cheap booze, the angry regulars, the way Lincoln paid for Octavia’s final drink. Clarke knows that last story is deliberate on Bellamy’s part: Adam’s had a thing for Octavia since the first time she slept over on their couch her freshman year. Even in her hazy state, Clarke rolls her eyes.
“So should I brush up on my street fighting so I can go with you guys next weekend?” Adam asks.
“Not worth it to go back.” Bellamy raises his voice to extend the conversation to the backseat. “We’ll get you a fake ID or something, O,” he offers, trying to sound pragmatic despite his slurred words.
Octavia, eyes closed, makes a noise of agreement and lolls her head on to Clarke’s shoulder.
“I know a guy,” Murphy mumbles against the window.
“’Course you do. See, Murphy knows a guy. We won’t need to go back to that place.”
---
Exactly one week later, the next Friday night, Clarke receives a text from Octavia.
Octavia [6:49 PM]: Let’s go back to that place.